The Brokenness You Left Behind
by The-Crazy-One613
Summary: John misses the man he never got to tell he loved. He can't bear it anymore.
1. Chapter 1

John sat on the edge of the bathtub, in only his pants, head hung low. the thought of what he was about to do made his heart race and his ears ring. He wasn't in control of himself anymore, and, as quickly as the idea came into his head, it was solidified into reality.

John added one vertical cut to the group that graced his thigh. high enough where no one would see it, even if he was wearing shorts.

Five letters in, three to go, but the "O" seemed to prove difficult, and John panicked as he realized he'd cut slightly too deep. He sat there, ashamed and frozen in fear. He had no real answer as to what he would do now, as the blood trickled down his leg in streams and met the shallow pool of reddening water in the tub.

He could feel his consciousness slipping away, as he lost muscle tension and slid down into the bath. He shivered, hitting the shallow water, watching as the red darkened.

John was determined to finish what he started, and hastily carved out the last two letters, now immune to the pain coursing through his body. He felt his eyes start to slip closed as he dropped the razor blade into the water, relishing the image of Sherlock behind his eyelids, but annoyed at noticing something on the periphery. He was too far gone to care.


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft Holmes stormed up the stairs to Baker Street, dragging a half-asleep DI Lestrade behind him. He barely bothered to take any caution, kicking open doors and throwing things aside to create a path for the paramedics that were on their way.

DI Lestrade snapped awake as he observed what was going on in the bathroom, his training kicking into gear before his brain fully caught up. He took Mycroft's belt and made a tourniquet, cutting off as much blood supply to John's leg as possible. It was obvious that the doctor had already lost a lot of blood, but the DI was determined to do everything he could, being only partially filled in on the circumstances.

The paramedics had John in the ambulance and were transfusing blood before they even pulled away from the curb. Luckily, knowing everything about everyone had it's up-side, but Mycroft was too shaken up by what he'd just seen to fully register that he'd made John's survival possible.


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn't two minutes before the politician's phone began to ring incessantly. He answered to an extremely panicked, and seemingly teary Sherlock, screaming at him with venom that could only befit Mycroft's little brother. He understood, of course, but he was far too tired and traumatized to be anything but extremely irritated with his younger sibling.

Mycroft spoke firmly over the yelling.

"Sherlock. Stop. I told you this would happen. Just get here immediately. He will need you."

Sherlock choked out a broken "o-okay" before hanging up.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock had never been more miserable. He had gone over and over the security footage until he couldn't watch anymore. He cried on the plane back to Heathrow and got strange looks from some of the passengers. He was completely broken.

The camera was too far away from the bathroom for Sherlock to be able to make out what John had written on his leg, but he was devastated at the incident nonetheless. Sherlock had regretted leaving John the second he stepped off the roof of Bart's, and hurt over it every second since. Not even hunting down Moriarty's men could distract him.

Now, John, his John, was in trouble. Sherlock had known he was hurting, but not that badly. He used DI Lestrade's badge, Mycrofts influence, and all the money he had to get to Bart's in record time. But, Sherlock could never have prepared himself for what he found there.


	5. Chapter 5

The hospital was busy, as usual, though Sherlock rarely saw this section of it. He arrived just as the nurses were changing John's dressings. He was pale from blood loss, still unconscious from the sedatives, and had a horrid looking facsimile of Sherlock's name carved into the top of his right thigh.

Sherlock walked into the men's room calmly, but lost it once he had locked the door. He knew things had been bad, but not nearly how bad they had been. Sherlock was used to Mycroft's dramatic tendencies, and thought he'd deduced correctly that this was just another one of them. For once in his life, being wrong completely devastated him.

The swirl of emotions that Sherlock felt was something completely alien to him, as he found himself crying profusely, whispering John's name, and wondering how on earth John would ever forgive him.

After he had managed to calm down, though, Sherlock made ready to march out of the bathroom and stand vigil beside John's bed until he woke. He re-entered the hospital full of people with doubt clearly written on his face for the first time in his life.


	6. Chapter 6

The room was quiet, but for the beeping of the monitors and the hissing of the oxygen machine as it dispensed it's contents as needed. Sherlock sat, and waited.

The doctors and nurses came and went, slowly getting used to the presence of Sherlock and his overcast moods; only nodding at him for fear of triggering an outburst, which by now had become a legend in the ICU.

They kept John sedated for 48 hours. It was enough time to allow the doctors to stabilize his condition, but far too much time as far as Sherlock was concerned. He pouted, paced, and screamed at anyone who dared enter the room, once so loud that John flinched in his drug-induced sleep.

Mycroft kept most everyone at arm's length, but Molly did show up for a while. It was less traumatic for her to be allowed, she'd already known what Sherlock had done and why. He listened, though, as Mycroft's security detail wrestled a very indignant Lestrade back out of the waiting room, and felt something that might have been guilt when he realized what his "death" might have done to anyone else.


	7. Chapter 7

The nurses came around the next morning to find Sherlock sleeping curled up in the available chair. He woke at the sounds of them entering the room, and looked at them expectantly; but, glared might be the more correct term.

"We're going to wean him off the sedatives now. He'll wake up a bit, but he'll still be drowsy." the nurse looked at Sherlock sternly, not knowing the full implications of what she was saying, "be careful with him."

She quietly stepped out as Sherlock settled back in to wait.

It wasn't long before a flutter of eyelids caught Sherlock's attention. He sat up a bit straighter, but didn't move from his spot. He watched as John struggled to regain consciousness, and just barely won; but Sherlock could tell the moment he spoke that he was, in no manner, fully awake.

"S'lock. Y're here. Missed you. 'least I get to be with you now." he slurred, reaching out towards his visitor.

When the IV in John's arm impeded that movement, though, it was like something had snapped in his break with reality.

Sherlock could see the gears whirring in John's brain as he attempted to quickly make sense of what was going on. He took in the IV, the wires, the hospital bed. He grunted with pain as an attempt to sit up pushed at the bandages on his leg.

The pain woke him up further, though, and John's eyes snapped to Sherlock. Nothing else in the world could hold his attention in that moment. Sadness, denial, and then blazing fury crossed his face before he settled himself behind a peaceful looking facade and stared towards Sherlock.

"What. The. Bloody. Hell. Did. You. Do?" he enunciated as clearly as he could.

Sherlock stared at him, shocked, attempting to assess what his next move should be. For once, he was at a loss. He said the only thing he could think of.

"Saved your life."

John was disarmed, the sneer falling from his face as quickly as it appeared. He could tell that there was honesty behind Sherlock's statement. He saw the tears begin to well up in the detective's eyes.

Moments passed on in silence for a while before John spoke again.

"Sherlock. Come here." he said, and the detective's head snapped up.

"What?"

"I said: come here."

Sherlock cautiously stood, waiting for a reaction he couldn't begin to predict. He stepped over to the side of the bed as John reached out and took his hand.

"You know, don't you?"

"Yes. I've seen." John hung his head, "what on earth happened, John?"

John began to tear up, only able to choke out one word, "you."

"Well, obviously. But why?"

"Oh, you daft git!" John's temper flared, "for being a genius, you are a complete berk!"

Sherlock's gentle look turned into a glare, and then took on a hint of contemplation as he attempted to work out exactly what John meant.

"John. I don't know what you're on about, but I had no other choice!" Sherlock said angrily, "I couldn't just let the man I..." Sherlock stopped short as his train of thought finished his sentence and he realized what he was about to say.

"What, Sherlock? What were you going to say? You went and left me think you were dead! You owe me this!"

Sherlock looked stunned, but slowly nodded his head.

"I couldn't just let the man I loved be killed." he said, tilting his head to hide his face.

John was caught off guard, but he was quick to think of a response, "so you let the man I loved die?"

Sherlock's head snapped up, searching John's eyes for any trace of facetiousness. He didn't know how it could possibly be true that John would love an inconsiderate arse like him, but it was.

"Sherlock. Come. Here." John said, tugging on Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock closed all but an inch of the distance between them and waited, being sure that this wasn't a drug-induced delusion. But, John leaned in and pressed his lips to Sherlock's in a gentle kiss that quickly turned to anything but. They only stopped when Sherlock leaned slightly on the bed, the shift in weight causing John's stitches to pull.

He winced, but then spoke, "God, I've waited so long to do that."


	8. Chapter 8

The next twenty four hours were bad for John, but far worse for Sherlock. There was too much of taking John away as the doctors poked and prodded, checked stitches, and assessed whether John was ready to be taken off suicide watch, and whether he had enough blood, and whether he was properly hydrated. To Sherlock, it seemed like an eternity.

Finally, though, they were packed into a cab and headed back for Baker Street.

Sherlock had seen the security footage of the flat many times, but he didn't understand the gravity of what had happened in his wake until he was standing in it.

He had helped John upstairs and kissed him as he fell back into a drug-induced sleep on the couch, and then Sherlock was determined to have a look around.

Everything was still exactly where it had been left before he jumped. All of the science equipment, every book, every stray paper, even the tea cup that Sherlock had used that morning, which sat, untouched, on the counter in the kitchen. The only things that were missing were his more...perishable experiments. The pain Sherlock felt behind this was great, but he pushed himself onwards to see what else had happened.

Sneaking up to John's room was the same as it had always been, though somehow different. Sherlock soon realized that it was because John's bedroom hadn't been touched. The bed was perfectly made, everything was in it's place, but there was a layer of dust over everything, even the floor, which made it obvious that no one had entered the room in months.

As per the minute amount of wear that Sherlock noticed on the living room furniture as he came in, he could only figure one place that John might have slept. Sure enough, there was just such a place in the center of Sherlock's bed. Nothing else in the room was as much as moved, but the bed had definitely been slept in.

The revelation hit Sherlock like a ton of bricks. He fell to his knees with the force of it. He realized that, for the first time in his life, he hurt for someone else. He hurt for John. He cried there for a while before he could even find the strength to move, and then decided that he would never let John hurt that way again.


	9. Chapter 9

Two hours later, there was the smell of takeout wafting through the flat as Sherlock dished it up on plates, and the kettle whistled as the tea water boiled.

Sherlock pulled his chair up close to the couch, and sat waiting until John woke up. It didn't take long, because it was obvious John could smell the food and hot tea. He was groggy, but Sherlock could tell how hungry he was for real food.

John sat up and they stared at each other for a while before he smiled groggily, "Well, this is nice for a change."

Sherlock just smiled back. He couldn't really be bothered to think of a witty retort at the moment, because he was just glad to see that smile again for what seemed like the first time in ages.

Everything was back in place. They were both back at Baker Street; alive, if only barely so. Sherlock knew what was ahead of them, and more specifically what was ahead of him. It would be rough, but they would find a way to get through it.

They ate in companionable silence; the only change being that Sherlock moved over to sit next to John on the sofa as he sat up to eat. They didn't turn on the telly, or even really talk to each other. Their late lunch was finished quickly, followed by Sherlock wrapping John in his arms, kissing the top of his head, and holding him until they both fell asleep against each other.

An hour later, they woke again. Sherlock made John another cup of tea, and decided that helping him into the bedroom would be a better place for him to sleep than the sofa.

Sherlock knew he was tired too, but didn't think he'd be able to fall asleep. But, after the utter insanity of the past few days, Sherlock did succumb to the more animal parts of his brain that had such mundane needs as sleeping and eating. Having John there helped immensely as well. For the first time in years, Sherlock slept soundly through the night.


	10. Chapter 10

The next day came, and Sherlock dreaded what was going to happen.

Mrs. Hudson was due back today from her "impromptu" trip to see her sister. And, per the evidence that Sherlock had gathered from Mycroft, it was DI Lestrade's night to look in on John and be sure he was okay. Sherlock was sure he absolutely wouldn't miss it after what had happened.

He wasn't sure which he was more afraid of: Mrs. Hudson finding out, or Lestrade finding out. Poor Mrs. Hudson might just have a heart attack after all of the insanity that Sherlock and John had put her though. Lestrade, on the other hand, may very well punch Sherlock, considering that he's grown quite attached to helping the man through his depression since Sherlock jumped.

The time was coming, though, whether Sherlock wanted it to or not. So, he pushed himself up off the bed after gently disentangling himself from John's arms, and went to the kitchen to make tea.

John was awake not ten minutes later, limping into the kitchen and yawning and stretching, then looking surprised as he saw the kettle on the stove.

"You know, nice as this is, you really don't have to keep doing this."

Sherlock looked at John, struggling heavily to mask the emotions running through his head, and nodded towards a chair for him to sit down, "I know."

Breakfast went quietly, but tensely, as they both awaited what would happen next, fully knowing what was coming. Though, the couldn't have even imagined the afternoon set before them.

As it turned out, somehow, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson arrived at exactly the same moment. Sherlock could hear them blathering on about typical pleasantries before John had even noticed. He heard the awkward silence that occurred as they must have remembered exactly why they stopped at the bottom of the stairs, instead of continuing into Mrs. Hudson's flat for tea and biscuits. He could almost hear their mutual nod as they decided to brave the journey to see John together.

For a second, Sherlock held his breath. It was just long enough for John to shoot him a questioning look; the expression made amusing by the mouthful of eggs he hadn't managed to swallow yet. Sherlock chuckled, but kept it low so that their visitors wouldn't hear.

There was a knock at the door, "John? Are you home dear?" he could hear Mrs. Hudson say. God, how he'd missed her.

John quickly washed his eggs down with a sip of tea, "In the kitchen Mrs. Hudson." he said rather tensely.

The door opened, and two sets of footsteps could be heard, "John, Mrs. Hudson and I just stopped to check in on you. Is everything alright?" They could hear Lestrade say.

Then, everything stopped.

Mrs. Hudson looked like she'd been physically shocked, Lestrade looked startled, then happy, then angry. Mrs. Hudson began to cry, walking over and holding on to John. Truthfully, this was the first time she'd seen him since the A&E visit.

"Sherlock! What the hell...?"

Sherlock interjected, "look, I know you're upset, but I think you should listen to me. If you knew all of the facts, you would understand."

Lestrade was incensed, but disarmed for the moment. He sighed, "...okay."

Mrs. Hudson was still holding John and crying, but she nodded her head in Sherlock's general direction.

Everyone adjourned to the living room, Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade sitting on the couch, and John and Sherlock sitting in their respective chairs.

"Just...let me speak," Sherlock said, as he saw the DI draw his breath to protest, "and then you can have your say.

"As you all know by now, Richard Brook was a fake, and James Moriarty was real. Now I'm going to tell you what you don't know. He had snipers trained on you. All three of you. And they would shoot unless I jumped. I had to save you all; I wasn't going to let you die. Furthermore, I had to protect you from the rest of Moriarty's crime web, which I have successfully dismantled."

Sherlock nodded his assent for everyone else to speak, but it was derailed just slightly as Mrs. Hudson fainted into the side of DI Lestrade.


	11. Chapter 11

A few minutes, and a cool cloth, later, things seemed to be faring a little better. DI Lestrade was not much more happy about the whole situation, especially as he watched John acutely to try to determine how he was taking it. Though, his deduction skills were far from being as keen as Sherlock's.

It seemed like the entire group was staring at Sherlock, waiting for more of an explanation. Finally, John was sick of the tense silence and sideways glances.

"Sherlock, you should tell them...you know...that other thing." John blushed as he stumbled over his words.

Sherlock's head snapped up and he looked at John with just the tiniest bit of shock on his face. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade looked utterly confused. And John burst out laughing at the sight of all of their faces.

"If you find it so funny, John, then perhaps you should tell them?" Sherlock said, barely suppressing a giggle himself.

John thought a minute, and then decided that there really was nothing that needed saying. He leaned forward in his chair and reached over to twine his hand in Sherlock's. He looked pointedly at their guests, and then back to the face of the man he loved.

"Oh, come off it, mate! We've known for years!" Lestrade lightly poked fun at the situation and everyone broke out laughing.


	12. Chapter 12

The next few weeks were filled with reunions. Some tearful, some angry, and some absolutely hilarious as Sherlock and John not only got to observe the faces of their friends at realizing that Sherlock was alive, but at them realizing that Sherlock and John were together. It seemed like nothing else could be more perfect.

John never went back to see his therapist, because he had no need to now. The stitches were removed, leaving an ugly-looking scar that John was very embarrassed of. Sherlock looked at it with reverence, fear, and deep sadness, though.

John's limp had been back for a while, but had faded with time and healing; as well as a bit more running across London as he and Sherlock picked up a few new cases on occasion.

One day, though, John noticed that Sherlock came home from one of his all-too-usual disappearances with a bit of a limp of his own. John decided to investigate.

"Sherlock? Did you get hurt?"

"No."

"What do you mean, "no"? You're limping!"

"There was no case, no fight. I didn't get hurt."

"Then why are you limping?"

"Because I am."

"Why won't you answer me?"

Sherlock sighed heavily. He was sure that this had been a bad idea from the beginning. Why had he even done such a thing. Sentiment? Must have been. But, he grabbed John's hand and dragged him to the bathroom.

"Sherlock. What are you doing?"

Sherlock didn't say anything, he just looked towards the floor. For the first time all day, John had noticed that Sherlock was wearing...shorts?

Sherlock never wore such a thing in his life, John thought. What the hell?

Then John noticed the edge of a piece of gauze sticking out from under the shorts. He bent down to take a look.

"I thought you said you weren't hurt!"

"I'm not."

John pulled the tape off to take a look, and what he saw was the very last thing he had ever expected.

His eyes welled up and he couldn't help but collapse further, crying. John had never been one for such things, but he was even more astounded that Sherlock had done.

Below the gauze, in the same place where Sherlock's name was permanently scarred onto John's leg, John's name was now tattooed onto Sherlock's in a perfect copy of Sherlock's elegant script handwriting.

Sherlock bent down to John's level with a bit more effort than it had taken John. He spoke to John, for once, not hiding anything.

"I was always a permanent part of you. You wanted me when no one else did. It took having to protect you, having to live without you, having to think I'd lost you, to realize just how much I had to lose. You are a permanent part of me because I always wanted you, even though I didn't deserve you."

Sherlock gaped for a second, wishing that he'd had more to say, and attempting to think of such things. But, he wanted to say everything to John; there was no ground to build upon in the vastness of what he held in his head.

They both smiled through tears, and hugged each other. The knew that this would be far from easy, but that neither of them would miss it for the world.


End file.
